


Art Lovers

by ungoodpirate



Series: Art Lovers [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Klaine, M/M, Sexual Content, art student!Blaine, art thief!Kurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungoodpirate/pseuds/ungoodpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I saw you looking at me."</p><p>“You were stealing a painting. Of course I was looking at you!"</p><p>“Well, there’s looking,” he stares at Blaine straight on. “And then there’s…” he drops his eyes to Blaine’s ankles then slides them slowly up Blaine’s body until their eyes reunite, “Looking.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Lovers

            The art thief is in his apartment. Okay, context.

Blaine may have snuck into a closed museum exhibit last week. (He _really_ wanted to see it. And he took the day off, and as a starving artist/art student, that meant a lot. Nothing in the brochures had mentioned about the exhibit being closed today! That’s bad business. Blaine was just righting a wrong. And God, he had really wanted to see it… and it’s not like he meant any harm).

            Blaine may have witnessed grande larceny. (He had stopped in his tracks when he spotted the slim figure, realizing he wasn’t the only person in the closed exhibit. This person – though it took a few moments for Blaine’s head to compute what was happening – wasn’t there just to appreciate fine art though. Or maybe he was there to appreciate it on a whole other level, by stealing it).

            Blaine also may have not said anything about it. (He stood, gawking. The man was tall and not at all dressed like a thief. No mask, no all black, normal clothes except for the gloves. He was already rolling up the canvas when Blaine had arrived. He stared at Blaine for a long moment, but when Blaine didn’t run, didn’t yell, didn’t say a thing, the man winked. He fitted the canvas into a long plastic bag like you would get if you bought a poster in the gift shop. As the thief left, he brushed past Blaine, electric going through his veins at the touch. The thief whispered, breath on Blaine’s neck, “Give me a minute.”)

            Blaine gave him more than a minute, glued to spot in shock. More than a minute, then walked with frozen steps to investigate, to see the surely empty frame. Then he snuck out the closed exhibit just the way he came. He explored some other rooms of the museum, enjoying nothing. Then he left, went home in a dazed state, didn’t see the news report until the next morning.

            Priceless artwork stolen. No leads. Entire security camera system had been down due to glitch. Head of security fired over breach. Anyone with any information about theft is asked to please come forward.

            Blaine didn’t. Doesn’t.

            It’s a week later, and the art thief is in his apartment, sitting cross-legged on his couch.

            “Hello, Blaine,” the thief says in that sweet tone that Blaine remembers. He grips tighter the keys still in his hand from just coming through the door.

            “How do you know my name?”

            The thief raises his hands in mock questioning shrug and looks pointedly around the living space, pressing the point... how could he not know Blaine’s name if he is in Blaine’s home.

            Blaine swallows, asks another question. “Do you have a name?”

            The thief’s lips curl up. “Kurt,” he says. “But don’t think going to the police with that will help them find the painting. It was fenced long ago.”

            Blaine scoffs at the word _fenced_ , such a cheap word for an extraordinary piece.

            “Such an art-lover,” the thief – Kurt – teases. “Not that I couldn’t tell.”

            Of course he could. There are prints of Blaine’s favorite famous pieces on the walls, actual canvases of local artists’ pieces that inspired him, his own easel set up in a corner, piles of sketch books. It’s obvious and he's not embarrassed, yet he blushes. He feels revealed.

            “What are you doing here?” Blaine asks.

            Kurt makes a noise that’s like a laugh that is not quite a laugh. “Now you finally get to the most important question. Shouldn’t you have asked that first?”

            Blaine should’ve. Blaine should’ve run out, or threatened to call the police, really called the police, really called the police last week. He’s been off, not himself, since he witnessed the theft. Since he witnessed Kurt.   

            Kurt stands from the couch. It’s not threatening. It should be, but it’s not.

            “I saw you looking at me,” he says.

            “You were stealing a painting. Of course I was looking at you,” Blaine retorts, but his stomach squeezes uneasy.

            Kurt tilts his head to the side, reminding Blaine of a cat curiously surveying its newest prey. “Well, there’s looking,” he stares at Blaine straight on. “And then there’s…” he drops his eyes to Blaine’s ankles then slides them slowly up Blaine’s body until their eyes reunite, “ _Looking._ ”

            Kurt steps closer until there is just inches between their bodies. Blaine can’t suck enough air into his lungs. Kurt’s hands come to rest on Blaine’s hips, thumbs pressing just above his hip bones. With every quick second that passes, Blaine can feel the heat from Kurt’s palms on his skin, even though the fabric of his clothes actually disconnects them.

            Kurt waits, unmoving, confident, almost smirking. Blaine can’t unlock his eyes from Kurt’s. Eyes so clever and cunning that Blaine suddenly feels like he’s never known anything. But he knows this: Kurt wants him, and he wants Kurt.

            Blaine moves to fill their gap. Shorter by a few inches, it’s easy to take that half step forward and slot his lips up against Kurt’s – maybe smirking true now that Blaine’s made his move.

            It’s a chaotic, blissful tangle after that.

            Blaine feels frantic, an itch under his skin for more, more, _more._ Everything was now making sense in its distorted way.

Though pale skin flushed, Kurt takes his immaculate time with everything. It’s probably how Blaine ended up stripped naked on his own bed while Kurt is still partially clothed, shirtless, with his skinny jeans unbuckled and unzipped, but still clinging to his hips.

            Kurt presses his lips across Blaine’s jaw, down Blaine’s neck, and lower, until he’s tauntingly licking a nipple. His hand curls around Blaine’s aching cock. All Blaine can do is pant.

            “Baby,” Kurt breathes into his ear, so familiar, like they were a couple – or at least fuck buddies – that had established pet names. His hand pumps steady. “Why didn’t you say anything to the police?”

            “What?” Blaine wheezes. That's not exactly standard dirty talk.

            Kurt sucks the lobe of Blaine’s ear into his mouth for a moment, dragging his teeth pleasantly across it as he pulls away. His hand slows on Blaine’s cock. “Why didn’t you tell the police anything?” he repeats.

            “I – I don’t know,” Blaine says. “I thought I’d get in trouble?”

            Kurt’s hand disappears. This feels like the worse possible fate.

            “Why?” Kurt demands.

            Blaine presses his head back into the pillow. “God, is this your version of an interrogation?”  

            Kurt’s fingertips press against Blaine’s chin, shifting him into eye contact with Kurt. Kurt says, “If you make me happy, I make you happy… and I can do more than hand jobs.” Kurt rubs a thumb across his bottom lip and the implication is quite clear.

            Blaine swallows. Hard.

            Quicker and with more grace than anyone should have in this moment, Kurt repositions himself, straddling Blaine completely. He rubs his hands adoringly up and down Blaine’s chest, catching at his peaked nipples on the passes.

“Make me happy, Blaine.”

            Blaine wishes some of his blood would return to his head. This has been his dilemma this whole time… his silence over the witnessed theft.

            “Because…” If he said it, it would be real, witnessed, notarized. He couldn’t be mild-mannered, pieced-together Blaine Devon Anderson in any honest, uncomplicated way, not once he had his confession. “When I saw you, doing _that_ , I kind of wished it was me.”

            There. Said. Waiting for response.

            Blaine peaks open the eyes he hadn’t even realized he had closed. Kurt’s staring down at him, reading his answer.

            “Good boy,” Kurt says after a moment. He kisses Blaine once more, brief and almost sweet. Then he shifts down Blaine’s body to put his mouth to work elsewhere.

…

            The next morning Blaine wakes up naked, skin clammy with bodily fluids (his own dried sweat, the trails of Kurt’s saliva, the mix of their come). It takes a few dreary blinks of his eyes for his consciousness to piece last night together. While Blaine is tangled up in his sheets, no one else is.

            He runs his hand up the spare side of the bed. The sheets are chill. No one has lain there recently. Kurt’s long gone. Not that he makes a habit of it, but it’s not the first time Blaine’s awaken alone after a casual tryst.

            His fingers snag on something – a piece of paper.

            _Until next time, Lover Boy._

            Blaine chuckles, freeing a chunk from his chest, because he’s pretty sure he believes there will be a next time.

           


End file.
